“Otis was a vicar for two weeks, but only after six years of preparation,” Joan confided. “It took him a month to memorize the doxology.”
“Madeline will improve his grasp,” Mr. Wooty said. He gave Joan a direct look. “My niece is a good girl, and I’m pleased to hear that Mr. Murgatroyd was a man of the cloth, albeit for a short period.”
“Otis is very honorable,” Joan assured him. Then she just burst out with her request. “Mr. Wooty, do you suppose that Otis and I could come along to your opening in Wilmslow and act our parts again? I have always longed to perform in front of a real audience.”
Mr. Wooty frowned. “As if you were a member of my troupe?”
“Who’s to know?” Joan asked. “I’m not well-known in Wilmslow, and Otis has never been there in his life.”
“My understanding is that a lady’s reputation is all important,” Mr. Wooty said. “What of your gentleman?”
“What?”
“Lord Greyslick,” Mr. Wooty said, jerking his head toward the other side of the ballroom.
“Greywick,” Joan corrected. “He’s not mine! He simply volunteered himself to be a chaperone. You needn’t worry about my safety, because he volunteered himself to come to Wilmslow as well, and between him and Otis, I shall be perfectly safe.”
“Not yours?” Mr. Wooty asked, chuckling. “He didn’t take his eyes off you, Lady Joan.”
“He could never marry me,” she said, telling him the truth because. . . . why not? “He’ll be a duke someday.” Then it occurred to her that perhaps Mr. Wooty wasn’t aware of her irregular parentage, but he merely nodded.
Because, in case she had ever wondered, the truth was that all of England knew of her Prussian father and adulterous mother.
“We don’t even like each other,” she continued. “He is simply a friend of the family, with an oversized sense of responsibility. He’s afraid that I’ll be ruined by playing the role of Hamlet, even here in the castle, but I think he’s far too old-fashioned.”
“It is a bold move,” Mr. Wooty said, looking up and over her shoulder. “Your marital future is no concern of mine, Lady Joan. I’ve told you before, and I’ll say it again; you’re a rare actress, and if you have a mind to leave the castle—and your father agrees—I would take you with me in the blink of an eye. I would build you a new wagon, fit for my lead actress.”
“She is a lady, a duke’s daughter, not an actress,” a deep voice said.
Joan turned. Thaddeus was staring down at them, wearing his most enigmatic, judgmental expression. She sighed. “You really must stop popping up, looking as if you’d like an excuse to stab someone with a rapier.”
Thaddeus glanced down at his drumming fingers and stilled his hand. He looked back at Mr. Wooty. “Lady Joan will never sleep in a wagon, new or not.”
“Just as I thought,” Mr. Wooty said, nodding.
“Thaddeus, stop being so difficult,” Joan said. “Lord Greywick will accompany me and Otis to Wilmslow, Mr. Wooty.”
“As will my mother, the Duchess of Eversley,” Thaddeus said.
Joan threw him a grateful look; his phrasing was so wily that she might have constructed the sentence herself. She had a constitutional dislike of lying, but she found that any number of uncomfortable truths could be blurred with the correct wording.
“My mother complains that standards have fallen since the days of Good Queen Bess,” Mr. Wooty mused. “I can scarcely believe that the duke will allow his daughter to perform on the public stage, let alone in breeches. And yet a duchess will accompany you, as if to no more than a May outing!”
Joan didn’t correct him, and Thaddeus held his tongue as well.
“Mr. Murgatroyd as Ophelia poses something of a drawback for the Wilmslow performance,” Mr. Wooty pointed out. “Not, I hasten to add, in the bosom of the family, but before a general audience.”
“Surely, not an overwhelming problem,” Thaddeus said. “One performance, and you’re on your way, with no one the wiser for one regrettable evening. Surely, such irritating issues crop up frequently? I would, of course, insist on offering compensation for any losses.”
“‘The show must go on’ is a rule that has resulted in any number of lackluster performances,” Mr. Wooty agreed. “A drunk Hamlet is sad to see, especially during those fight scenes. A colleague of mine had an even worse situation: His Macbeth was having an affair with Malcolm’s wife, and so he skewered his fellow actor in Act Five. That company won’t say the name of the play aloud as a result.”
“Otis is not violent,” Joan said encouragingly.
“I’m worried about vegetables,” Mr. Wooty said.
She knit her brow. “In what sense?”
“Audiences sometimes entertain themselves by throwing tomatoes if they’re not enjoying the performance,” Thaddeus explained.
“Even a marrow, now and then,” Mr. Wooty said resignedly. “Though Wilmslow has not proved an excitable crowd in the past.”
“We’ll hire people to stand at the door and remove any marrows that an audience member might have on their person,” Thaddeus said calmly.
“Excellent,” Mr. Wooty said, looking relieved.
“Those men can’t be in livery,” Joan told Thaddeus. “That might lead to someone suspecting the Wildes are somehow involved.”
“Certainly not.”
“This brings to mind another problem,” Mr. Wooty said. “The fencing. In Act Five. You’ll have to be even more convincing than I originally thought. Our regular audiences love derring-do far more than long soliloquies.”
“Lord Greywick will help me,” Joan said.
Mr. Wooty’s brow wrinkled. “You’ll need to fight a proper duel in Wilmslow. Much of the audience gets through the language just waiting for the swords to come out.”
“I will instruct Lady Joan in the art of dueling,” Thaddeus said.
She glanced up at him. “You’ve never been in a duel in your life!” Thaddeus seemed so in control of his every movement and word; it was hard to imagine him feeling the need to do more than glance down his nose at a miscreant who dared insult him.
“At Eton, we were forced to perform plays,” he said. “I learned how to slide a sword beneath an armpit, for example.”
“Teach Lady Joan how to fall,” Mr. Wooty said to Thaddeus. “You can work with her the next two afternoons, and I’ll start her with Laertes the day after.” He bounded to his feet. “I’ll agree to Wilmslow. But I won’t tell the troupe until that night, in case you change your mind after playing Hamlet. It isn’t the easiest part.”
“Will the person who normally plays Hamlet mind?” Joan asked. If she were in the troupe, she would spend all day longing for the moment when she stepped on the stage.
“Not he,” Mr. Wooty said. “He’s still in London flirting with any pretty girl who will give him the time of day. He has a fine royal nose, and ladies admire it.”
“But I’ll be on the stage in his place,” Joan said.
“He won’t care,” Mr. Wooty said with finality. “You’re thinking the life of an actor is all about the passion for the role, my lady. It’s brutal work, and Caballero—as plays my Hamlet—isn’t the sort of man who does more than what’s required.”